The Return
by luckypixi
Summary: A different look at Holmes' return after the Great Hiatus. When Sherlock returns to London, everything has changed. Will things ever get back to the way they were? Angsty with some drama added in. Please R&R
1. Chapter 1

**Hi**

**A little angsty fic about Holmes' return after the Great Hiatus. The first chapter will be Holmes' point of view, and the second Watson's. **

**Please review, and let me know what you think of it.**

**Enjoy!**

**Onwards...**

Holmes crossed the familiar cobbles, toward the familiar street which had haunted his dreams for the past three years. He felt an unfamiliar longing, as though something was drawing him there. It was like a painful ache within his soul, calling him home. He knew his absence had been long, unexplained and totally necessary. If any of Moriarty's men had known he was still alive after the fateful afternoon in the Swiss Alps, no one he knew would be safe. Not Clarky, not Lestrade. Not even Watson. His poor, dear, Watson. As Holmes had lain on the precipice, he had heard his friends' agony filled cries, cursing Moriarty and begging Holmes to come back to him. How he wished he could climb down, to comfort his Boswell, to put an end to his grief. But he didn't. He had no choice. Watson would be first on the list to be captured, to be tortured if need be. And he couldn't have that. If this was the only way to keep Watson safe, he would do it without hesitation; he owed Watson that much.

So it was with a heavy heart that he left the Falls, making his way across the continent, in the opposite direction even he expected himself to take. Away from London, away from his cases. Away from Watson.

And that was where he stayed for three years, keeping himself busy in the foreign lands, keeping out of the way. Keeping everyone else safe.

It was the least he could do.

He walked towards those seventeen stone steps, that oak door that held so many memories. He slowly reached out and stroked the door handle with his fingertips, savouring the feeling he took little notice of before. He jumped backwards with a shout of surprise as the door opened and an unfamiliar couple strode out, hand in hand.

'I say, are you alright?' the man exclaimed, putting out a hand to steady the detective.

'Yes' stuttered Holmes, looking intently at the man, who regarded him kindly. 'Who are you? Which is your apartment?'

The man shared a confused look with his wife, a red headed woman. 'My name is Charles Lefton and this is my wife, Elizabeth. We occupy apartment 221B'  
>'Ah.'<br>Holmes felt as if the bottom had just fallen out of his stomach. Of course; Watson no longer lived here; he hadn't occupied it in over three years. Of course Mrs Hudson would advertise for more lodgers. He vaguely wondered what had become of all his experiments, all his peculiar knick knacks that Watson used to complain so much about. 'Could I please see the landlady? I used to live here, you see.' Holmes rather wanted to see a familiar face. Mrs Hudson had been one face that he had felt was lacking in his life these past years.

Charles gave out a bark of a laugh. 'You must be the detective she spoke so fondly about' he smiled.  
>Holmes already had another sinking feeling as the twinkle left the mans eyes.<br>'The dear woman passed away two years ago'  
>'Ah'<br>Holmes didn't understand what he was feeling; a gut wrenching mixture of grief, pain and guilt. Mrs Hudson was dead? She had been as fit as a war horse when he had left; how could she had died? She was one of the people who he thought would live forever, one of the few constants in his life.  
>Charles patted him on the shoulder. 'She always said that she knew you weren't dead.' his brows creased. 'She and that doctor chap were always at logger heads about that. He said you had died. She always said that before she went, you would come back.' He peered at Holmes. 'I'd say she was a few years too fast in the going.'<p>

Holmes sighed. 'Indeed' he muttered. He looked at the man, his heart heavy with emotion. 'Where is she buried?' Charles directed him and Holmes went on his way, meandering through the well trodden streets, thoughts running through his head, mismatched memories and half thoughts that made no sense. He let his feet guide him through the cemetery, eyes averted. Making his way as instructed, he quickly found the headstone he was looking for. Looking down at the inscripted stone, he felt a wave of emotion run through him.

He had missed so much during these last three years. He had lost his landlady. His home. What else had changed? Sighing, he ran a hand down his face, looking around with tired eyes, the cemetery gloomy and unwelcoming. He had to see Watson. He had to explain. He had to make this right. He turned on his heel, not before taking one last look at the headstone in front of him. He owed Mrs Hudson that much, for his lies. The landlady always had trust in him, even sometimes misplaced, but always there. The pair always had a mutual respect for the other, bouncing off each other in the dark hours. Sighing again, guilt crushing him from the inside, Holmes made to walk back out of the cemetery, tipping his head in respect.  
>And stopped dead.<br>To his utter amazement, he watched his dear Watson walk slowly up to a lonely headstone before kneeling down in front of it, his posture that of a broken, crushed man.  
>Holmes slowly walked towards him, as silent as he could. But he stopped again when he heard Watson speak.<p>

'Three years to the day, old boy. The years don't make the pain any easier.'

Holmes felt his heart shatter and break; Watson was grieving. For him. He bowed his head, feeling warmness creep up his cheeks, shame clouding his looked up again from his ashamed stance as Watson spoke again.'I suppose by the third anniversary I should have begun to come to terms with your passing. But I haven't and don't think I ever will. It's as if I'm walking around with only one arm.' he laughed harshly, an unnatural sound that didn't suit him. 'There are a lot of things I cannot do with only one arm.'

Holmes walked forwards a little more and cleared his throat, his heart dreading what was about to happen. He watched Watson's back tense as he turned around, no doubt shocked by the familiar voice interrupting his grief stricken ramblings.

Holmes saw Watson's eyes widen and his mouth open in horror.

'Holmes?'


	2. Chapter 2

**A late update here, but my muse finally returned...**

**Warning: This has one sentence concerning suicidal thoughts**

**I hope you enjoy this, as I think it explains a lot of things..**

**Please review**

**Onwards...**

Watson felt the colour drain from his face, leaving him feeling lightheaded. He gripped his cane until his knuckles turned white and his fingers became numb.

'Holmes?' he repeated out of sheer disbelief, blinking a few times to make sure the figure in front of him was absolutely there. The graveyard was darkening quickly and it made Holmes appear all the more mysterious.

'Watson.' Holmes nodded a greeting, not trusting himself to speak much more. Watson was staring at him with barely disguised shock, his blue eyes wide with confusion. He couldn't blame him; he would react the same if his 'dead' best friend had returned to him so suddenly.

Watson took a deep, calming breath before taking one small step forwards, gripping onto his cane as though for moral support. With agonising slowness, eyes searching all the time, Watson walked towards his friend.

'How are you...When?' he stuttered, falling into silence when more words failed him. He fixed Holmes with a steely look and Holmes simply stared back.

'You're looking well.' Remarked the detective, hoping to defuse some of the tension that had been building up.

Watson stared at him, his mouth open in incredulousness , feeling colour rapidly fill his face. Without warning, he had brought up his fist and connected it with the side of Sherlock Holmes' face, feeling the detective swing sideways, pushed by his knuckles.

'I thought you were dead!' Watson bellowed, bringing his fist back again. 'I grieved for you, Holmes! I buried you!' Watson felt all his grief, all his anger, bitterness melt away each time his fist made contact. 'Why? How could you do this to me?'

'Watson!' Finally, after taking what he perceived was his due punishment, Holmes held out his hand and stilled his best friends' fist. John Watson made no effort to resist him, slowly, but surely guiding himself to the floor to settle next to his fallen friend.

'How?' he whispered, looking at the now bruised face of the great detective. 'Why would you do that? I spend weeks looking for you, scouring the water in Switzerland. I worked non-stop for near on a month to pay for a proper burial.' He looked into Sherlock's eyes, seeking recognition of the man he once knew.

And he found it.

'I never meant to hurt you like this' Holmes whispered, deft, violinists fingers trailing along his nose and cheekbones, looking for fractures and finding none; Watson, a doctor until the end. 'I meant to save you from more pain, not to cause it.'

'What do you mean?'

'If Moriarty's men knew I was still alive after our fight over the Falls, our lives wouldn't have been worth living. I had hoped, after eloping through Europe, that I would save you from their grasp; they would have wanted me and they would have quite happily gone through you.'

Watson nodded, now understanding, but not fully accepting; it would be a long time until that happened. He ran a still shaking hand through his hair, watching Holmes' face, drinking in all that he thought was lost. It was a rare thing, someone thought dead to come back to the living; he would savour every moment.

Holmes coughed awkwardly, still not used to sharing his feelings so much, everything feeling just a touch to raw to discuss right now. He would explain his reasons in detail later, now that Watson understood the basics.

'And how is your bonny bride?' he asked, a welcome smile falling into place on his handsome features.

His stomach fell as Watson faltered, eyes darkening, head bowing to look at his hands clasped in his lap. His whole persona had changed and Holmes noticed straight away.

'Oh, Watson, I am terribly sorry.'

Watson nodded, the wounds too raw still to talk about it. He doubted he would ever be able to after Mary was cruelly taken from him, unable to save her, unable to grieve. And so soon after Holmes had been lost to him. If he hadn't had his practice to think about he would have happily have joined them, as great was his pain.

'It really has been a rotten three years.' Said the doctor finally.

'I agree'

Holmes let out a low sigh, casting a look over the graveyard in which they were still sat. The night had truly crept in around them and he tugged his coat around him.

'Our lodgings...'

'Taken over after Mrs Hudson passed away.' Watson's answers were crisp and to the point.

'Ah. Then I must find accommodation for night, you surely have places to be.'

Watson looked at Holmes, smiling gently. 'I still have Cavindish Place.'

'No, Watson, I couldn't possibly intrude...'

'The pleasure would be mine.'

Holmes nodded, offering a hand to help his Boswell up from the ground. Watson groaned as he put weight on his leg, grimacing as he stretched.

'We'll be alright, old cock.' Remarked Watson, breathing a lighter breath than he had in over three years. 'In the end.'

Holmes nodded, feeling slightly more optimistic. He knew he still had a lot more explaining and a lot to prove for himself.

'I hope so, mother hen.'

-END-

**A little optimistic-ness as the end, some feeling of hope. I guess The Empty House would happen after this, and unless asked, I don't think I'll continue this. But I will if asked to.**

**Thank you for reading, hope you liked : )**

**Please leave a last review!**

**Luckypixi**

**xxxx**


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